


atlas: venus

by orphan_account



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989)
Genre: M/M, this has no format whatsoever but i coaxed it out last night and i think it's decent-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 20:23:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9288218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: But the stars sing, sisters in their pale tinkling laughs, and in the midst of sleep, soft and sudden, you find you miss a name, and eyes and two valleys for collarbones, too. And so you frown and bid Death farewell and slide down her thighs, back to where the ground is no longer an afterthought or a memory and your wind gust of a life inhales another lungful.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is, in my usual fashion, the stubborn child of a sleepless night. title from sleeping at last, which is what i'd like to be doing right now. i love neil perry a lot

'You're alive,' it comes from his bosom-bone and shapes itself around yours. 'You're alive,' says the whisper before the whisper. He still seems confused, as if reluctant to abandon the lap of grief when it had cradled him and warmed him like a mother through the remaining of winter. You imagine his breath fogging against your temple and he doesn't stop, prays his own crafted prayer, mouth swallowing eagerly the pulse of the vein on the side of your head; you're alive, you're alive. He was always a mirror of you in the most impossible way, like taking the ends of another dimension and lacing them with the ends of this one. He is shaky and cold, wary of disturbing the air around his shoulders whereas you are your family's last name in bold, uppercase, screaming letters of 'let me out'. 

Poetry has nothing to do with Death, is what you've learned. Poetry finds the softest, tenderest strip of flesh and presses down, casts upon your poor human form the belief that words are more than words; enchants. But she is creature, as is the human who makes her, and so resentment has no space to exist. Death has fingers, no thicker than the line that cut an end to your wind gust of a life, but instead of grasping you by force she gently presses you to her breastbone, full of the promise of eternal, undisturbed sleep. She does not lie and she does not lure, but she lays out the choice in front of you like a map in a manner so sweet that you find yourself stumbling back into her hold, willing and clumsy like a child, yearning for nothing more than the endless stain of coal behind your eyes.

But the stars sing, sisters in their pale tinkling laughs, and in the midst of sleep, soft and sudden, you find you miss a name, and eyes and two valleys for collarbones, too. And so you frown and bid Death farewell and slide down her thighs, back to where the ground is no longer an afterthought or a memory and your wind gust of a life inhales another lungful. 

He does not await. How could he? He has clung to grief only, like the sour branch it is. But still you tell him of how the stars sang in echoes and of how kind the dark is despite its size, and with his mouth against your temple he is a boy unafraid. Poetry quiets as you speak, yields to the wonder of him, of you, becomes tame at the contact. The whisper after the whisper,

"Tell me again."

**Author's Note:**

> catch me @ pcrrsh on tumblr & @ czcrny on twitter and harass me until i write<3


End file.
